


Inhale, Exhale, Repeat

by KateAtTheClose



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nicotine Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateAtTheClose/pseuds/KateAtTheClose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luz has trouble dealing with the events of "The Breaking Point," but Lipton is there to see him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhale, Exhale, Repeat

  
I wasn’t coping.

 

I’d never been real good at the whole “lets process this like a normal, healthy human being” thing.  I have – what do you call ‘em? – defensive mechanisms.  I’ve been cracking bad jokes and doing shitty imitations for as long as I can remember.  They’re nice and straight forward: people either laugh or punch me in the face.  Simple. 

 

But when I’m not fooling around, I don’t know what to do with myself.  I never have, it’s just one of those things I guess.  I’m a real antsy person; drove my ma and teachers crazy when I was a kid.  When something happens I can’t just brush off and laugh at, I don’t know what to do.  I hate it.  I got along okay in the end, somehow managed to grow up always seeing the funny side of things without going crazy.

 

This whole war thing was really fucking with the even keel I had going. 

 

Blood and chaos and guns and radios, and little ol’ me trailing along in its wake like a lost puppy.  Here’s a shocker: killing people is the shittiest thing in the world.  I come from a big family; I have eight brothers and sisters I love to death even when I want to throttle them and threaten to do worse.  I know that every guy I kill has a family, a sweetheart, a life that he’ll leave behind.  War is complicated, people are complicated, and I missed the simplicity of the machines I used to mess around with back home.  If something was broken, you fixed it.  If it couldn’t be fixed, you replaced it.  Parts and gears and switches and circuits.  Easy peasy.

 

But I don’t know what to do when people break.  There wasn’t a joke on the tip of my tongue when Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye had their legs blown all to hell.  There wasn’t a silly voice for when Buck Compton cracked under the strain. 

 

If Wild Bill and Joe Toye, the two toughest sons of bitches in this fucking tough Company, couldn’t make it on the line, what the hell kind of chance did I have?  If Buck, all-American jock with the sparkling charisma and leadership abilities, couldn’t handle the pressure how fuck could I?

 

Then Muck and Penkala.  Oh, God, Muck and Penkala. 

 

Frozen dirt biting my palms, hair stinging my eyes, the world crashing down around me, visions of Bill and Joe’s limbless bodies fresh in my mind as I crawled towards Muck and Penkala’s foxhole, scared shitless.  I could hear them yelling for me, even over the whistle and boom of the exploding shells.  Then, right in front of me,  _kaboom_.  No more Muck and Penkala.  

 

Then there was just me, lying in the dirty snow, safe and as un-fucking-touched as ever.  I screamed at Lipton, when I found myself in his hole, had to tell him, had to let someone know.  I couldn’t deal with it myself, couldn’t have it fester inside of me, I wasn’t good at coping, I wasn’t good at knowing what to do with the pain ( _Muck and Penkala, oh God),_ the terror  _(fucking shells)_ , the revulsion  _(red bits flying everywhere, nothing left)_ , and the shame  _(because I’m still here)._ Someone had to know.  I had always been terrible with secrets.  Big-mouthed George, don’t tell him nuthin’. 

 

I still sort of held on to disbelief, despite having seen the shell fall into their hole with my own eyes.  I had never been good at processing horrible things and my mind still only swallowed that they’d been hit, couldn’t absorb the fact that they were dead. 

 

Then that fucking shell that just  _refused to goddamn explode_  landed right next to Lipton and me _._  

 

If that wasn’t the kicker.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a death wish.  Pretty goddamn far from it: I really  _like_ living, and really understand the whole self-preservation concept.  But, honest to God, in what world could I have gotten through everything that this fucking war could throw at me without a scratch, and then have a shell fall close enough to kill and have it be a  _dud?_

 

Someone up there had taken a shine to me, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out the hell why.

 

At a loss, I mechanically put a cigarette in my mouth and lit it.  When Lipton took up the habit and swiped it, I merely took another Lucky Strike from my pack and lit that too, inhaling the smoke deep into my lungs. 

 

When I’d smoked it to the butt, I threw it away and lit another.  And then another. 

 

The hours after that shelling were a blur to me.  I moved, I walked, I did what I was told, I answered automatically when talked to ( _yes sir_ ,  _fine sir)_ , I even walked over to where Muck and Penkala had been, despite everything still stunned they weren’t there waiting for me ( _got ya good, didn’t we Luz?)_  and found Skip’s rosary for Malarkey.  I couldn’t talk to Malarkey; he looked just as numb as I felt.  Most of all, I smoked.  I went through the motions, my mind tumbling around somewhere far away. 

 

I forgot to eat.  I didn’t sleep.  I ran out of cigarettes until someone gave me a full pack.  For the life of me, I don’t know who.  I supposed I should say thanks, but there seemed to be some sort of failure of translation between my murky thoughts and actual physical reality, and by the time I opened my mouth to respond the guy was long gone and I was just sitting, alone in my hole, smoking. 

 

Always smoking.  Those would be my war wounds: the dark smudges on my fingers where the god-knows-what in the smokes stained my skin, the burns on my fingers from when my lighter slipped in my numb fingers, the thick cough that dragged at my lungs when they got tired of all the abuse.

 

Lipton came and sat with me.  I know this because Lipton said his name and shook my shoulder until I turned, blinking and lethargic, to listen as he told me to get some sleep.  I nodded, but my eyes stayed open.  I blew the smoke out into the night.  A few hours later, when I lit another cigarette, I saw Lipton in the glow, still there, curled up in sleep. 

 

Inhale, exhale, repeat.

 

Smoking almost two packs of cigarettes on an empty stomach and no sleep didn’t do my body any favours.  It felt so inclined as to register a formal complaint.

 

My world slammed itself back into colour when I braced myself against a tree and puked up everything I had ever eaten, including a vital organ or two for good measure.  Or at least, I tried.  I hadn’t eaten anything but smoke in far too long for much to come of all my hurling.  But, Lordy, I sure tried.  My heart pounded in my chest, feeling like it was going to break out and go for a run up and down Curahee all by itself.  I gagged again and my legs decided they had had enough of this funny business and gave out.  Gagging on my knees was no more thrilling, and the bark of the tree dug into my cheek where I pressed against it and groaned.  I tried to breath, shaky and ill, feeling tears tracing down my face but too dizzy to try and wipe them away.

 

“George?”  It was Lipton.  I felt a hand on my shoulder, then the back of a palm on my cheek, and closed my eyes.  I liked being called by my first name.  No one had ever called me by just my last name until I joined the Paratroopers.  There had been too many Luzs in my part of town for that to fly back in Rhode Island. 

 

 _‘Smoking’s bad, Lip.’_ I wanted to say, but all I could do was spit miserably into the dirt.

 

“You think you’re done?”  Lipton asked, his voice nice and steady.  I managed what I dearly hoped was a nod, since it made my vision go all wobbly.  He slung an arm under my shoulders and hauled me back into my foxhole, where I sat in a crumpled heap, too weak to do much else.  He sat beside me, silent.  I was glad he was there.  I didn’t want my mind to drift away again.

 

“How’re you doing, George?”  Lipton asked mildly after awhile, looking at where he was rubbing his hands together for warmth instead of at me, as if he was just shootin’ the shit as he passed by and hadn’t found me clutching a tree and trying to evac my kidneys through my throat. 

 

“Oh, well you know…” I started to say, trying for offhand and blasé but the words coming out of my numb lips as phoney and wavering.  “They were right in front of me, Lip.” I ended up saying instead, not sure when whatever lie I had been about to say had turned into that. 

 

There were no voices or personas to hide behind.  Just me, George Luz, weak and pathetic and exposed. 

 

I dug the box of Lucky Strikes from my pocket and knocked one out and had it in my mouth before I realized what I was doing.  Just the thought of smoking another cigarette had my stomach roiling.  I threw it away, watched as it bent on impact with the far side of the foxhole and lay there, discarded and forlorn. 

 

“Here,” I said to Lipton, and slapped the box into his palm with shaking fingers.  “This fucking war has made me a chain-smoker.”  The chuckle I was aiming for at the end somehow distorted itself into a sob. 

 

I pressed my knuckles into my eye sockets as I felt the burn of tears I should have shed days, months, years ago.  It was suddenly difficult to breathe, tears hot on my cold cheeks, and I wanted nothing more than to just lie down and give up.  To stop trying to deal with everything I couldn’t, to have the pain and the sadness and the fear and the guilt taken away from me so that I could just breathe and laugh and not fail to be everything that I wanted to be.  

 

Then I was crying, sobs tearing at my already shredded throat, my back heaving as I curled into myself, desperate and horrible.  An arm fell across my shoulder and Lipton tugged me against him, my head knocking against his shoulder as I cried, too weak and exhausted and broken to care.  I was falling to pieces, and I couldn’t stop. 

 

My sobs trailed off eventually, leaving me feeling empty and like my insides were trying to gnaw their way out.  I leant my head back against the foxhole wall; Lipton’s arm still a comforting, anchoring weight across my shoulders.  I did feel lighter somehow, and like the world was a just a little bit brighter and sharper around me. 

 

“We need you, George.”  Lipton said, his voice quiet and firm.  I stared at the forest across from my foxhole, watching the white and brown and green.  I knew he was looking at me, but couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze.  “You have the guts to say what we’re all thinking, even when you shouldn’t.  You make the guys laugh when they need it most, even where there isn’t anything funny about any of this.  We’re counting on you.” 

 

I looked up at him before I could stop myself, sure the panic was showing in my eyes.  No, don’t count on me, don’t depend on me, I can’t handle it, I can’t. 

 

“Remember when Captain Sobel sent us up Curahee after all that spaghetti?” 

 

As if I could forgot: noodles and sauce didn’t taste half as good coming up as they did going down.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat spaghetti again.

 

“You started singing Blood on the Risers from where you were running right at the front of the group.  It shut Sobel up pretty good, and the running sure as hell got a lot easier after that.  You brought us together.”  His eyes were reassuring, his mouth tilted up in a half smile.  “We need you there to tease us when we start to take ourselves too seriously, to lighten the mood when things get pretty dark.  But even when you’re not being a smartass,” I gave a soft harrumph at the wry way he said that.  “you’re a good guy to have at your side.” He paused. “Or fixing your radio.”  He added, his voice taking on a tinge of amusement.  He’s right, I am good at that.  Machines are easy, you just fix them up and they’re ready to work again. 

 

He didn’t mention Muck and Penkala.  He didn’t need to.  There was nothing he could say that would make their deaths any easier.  He knew that.  I knew that.  I was alive, and they weren’t.  I had to go on living, go on fighting, and go on trying.  If I knew those guys at all, they wouldn’t hold my not dying against me.  Hell, at least I hoped not.  If they did, they were sneakier bastards than I gave them credit for.   

 

“Thanks Lip.”  I said, quietly sincere.  He nodded, looking back out over the forest.  I joined him, and we sat in companionable silence until I coughed miserably then cursed when my throat stung all to hell.  I leant back against the foxhole feeling dizzy and ill, my heart racing. 

 

I thought that I should maybe cut down on smoking in the near future. 

 

And I thought that maybe, I might be able to start coping.


End file.
